#gore vent

The first instance of this is when I was born. I needed operations done on my body, surgical and specific, perfect and calculated. These were necessary, and I can appreciate it to an extent, even when I’m cursing a doctor’s name for what they’ve done to my form. All of my bones were broken correctly and made to heal well, but my body remembers the feeling of being cut into.

I was raised by someone that tried to surgically remove my flaws, tried to amputate what I needed to be rid of for the sake of my survival. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t walk with my legs severed, couldn’t grip with my fingers removed, so this person glued them back- and badly at that. I walked around- and I was able to walk, but only with a fragile foundation that was fixed just enough to be functioning, not happy and not healthy. I remember the feeling of being mutilated and put back together again.

When I was young that guardian took me to a program that taught its members that their bones are in the wrong places. Two ribs have been switched and left the rib cage ruined and destined for destruction, but they have a solution. You shift your ribs, clockwise, one shift at a time. Because two ribs are switched around, each shift doesn’t actually fix it, just shifts all of them and leaves you broken and mutilated. I remember the feeling of being made to feel twisted and beyond repair.

I gave- or I thought I gave- my bones to others after that. I didn’t quite want to but if I gave them at least they weren’t being forced out of me. Those bones were put back in just the right spot. They were nearly perfect. Nearly. Whoever took them covered them in something filthy, something impure, something ruined. When they put the bones back, my body fought the foreign organic matter on it, until my entire being rejected the bone I had and always had there. They covered it in something I can never remove without it killing me. I’ll take immunosuppressants to stop the fighting inside of my being, and I’ll be more susceptible to death as a result. I remember the feeling of being soured.

I spoke and laughed and loved with friends. How could I not? Ever so slowly I started to feel their hands on me, a threatening thumb waiting to snap my elbow out of socket. Instead of jerking myself away, I wondered what I could do to help them feel safe enough to take their thumb off of my fragile bone. What could I do so they didn’t feel the need to break it? How could I help them so they could leave my bones intact? I craved the contact, craved someone’s hand on my form. Who cares if it broke it? I’d still heal wouldn’t I? I always have. You’ve broken four of my toes and my elbow is in the wrong direction, but I hope you have a good night. I hope the dreams you have reflect the perfect life you deserve. I pray for your sanity, and that my healing after being broken doesn’t upset you too much. I remember the feeling of my life in someone else’s hands.

I learned to embrace the contact, embrace the breaks. The bones were never completely shattered. They were never ruined beyond some crude repair. Who cares if they’re filthy, disorganized, and dismantled pieces of organic matter I can’t sort out? You held me. You held me in your arms for the time before you snapped my femur- and shouldn’t I be grateful for that? Not everyone gets to be held in such a way as I have been.

I break, I heal, I come back a little more broken and a little less recognizable, and I run back into that contact. I want that connection, I want that pure love and friendship and the relationship between a parent and a child, and I’ll do anything to my bones to make you feel safe enough to keep it mutually beneficial. I promise.

I don’t want someone’s bones broken. I’d rather twist myself and my limbs if it means others can remain intact, because I’ve always healed and I’ve always returned to nearly how I was before. Nearly.